


every day

by all_these_ghosts



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s05e02 Redux II, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:52:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_these_ghosts/pseuds/all_these_ghosts
Summary: Even though she already knows the answer, she has to ask.





	every day

**Author's Note:**

> also from tumblr, a ways back.

“Mulder?”

He lifts his head from the side of her bed and stares up at her. His face is tear-streaked and pale in the dark room, and she realizes that the keening sound from her dreams wasn’t her imagination at all.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she says to fill the space, and because she doesn’t know what else to say, finding him here.

She hadn’t even noticed he was holding her hand until he pulls it away. “I wanted to ask you something,” he says, “but then I got here and you were asleep — I mean, of course you were asleep — and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I can’t believe the nurses let you in.”

He gives her a little sideways grin. “They didn’t.”

Scully rolls her eyes, but it’s all fondness in her voice. “Mulder, have you ever followed a rule?”

“Not lately.”

She reaches out to brush her thumb over his cheek, just under his eyes; she can feel the dampness there. “Then break another one,” she says softly. She scoots over to one side of her narrow bed and pats the empty space between them.

“Scully…”

“I’m cold,” she says, which is true, even if it isn’t why she’s asking. “Come on.”

He looks at her long, considering, then bends to untie his shoes. He shucks them off, and his jacket, too, pushing them into the corner of the room between the nightstand and the IV. He climbs in facing her. There’s no way for both of them to be in this bed without touching: his hand on her hip, her ankles tangled up against his calves. “Is this okay?” he asks.

In response, she tugs him just a little bit closer. Lately she’s been thinking about what she’ll regret when the time comes; when, inevitably, this treatment fails like all the others. Not this: not the last five years. Not him.

As he settles in, nestling against the thin hospital pillow and closing his eyes, she studies him. The shadows under his eyes too deep, his cheeks too pale. There is something newly fragile about him, some secret he’s not telling.

“Mulder,” she says, and he hums in response. Even though she already knows the answer, she has to ask. “Do you believe in miracles?”

“I believe in amateur athletics and the triumph of capitalism,” he deadpans, ”if that’s what you’re asking.”

Against her better judgment she snorts.

His voice drops. “Yeah, Scully. Of course I do.” He lifts a hand to her face, running his thumb along her lower lip, the curve of her jaw. “You’re with me every day.”


End file.
